


Believer

by Clarisse (transnymphtaire)



Series: Writing Style Experiments [6]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Before Voldemort's Fall, Cult Survivor, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Past Abuse, Religion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-25 16:38:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9829940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transnymphtaire/pseuds/Clarisse
Summary: Sanguini felt secure in the knowledge that he successfully left the past behind, until it comes back to haunt him. He has no God to pray to, but he prays to the one he abandoned anyway.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Drabbles are lovely, but I really wanted to write a serious fic for this ship.
> 
> I'm listening to Believer - Imagine Dragons on repeat as I'm writing.

_“What’s your name, my child?”_

_“Amadeo Sergio Acerbi.”_

_“You’re willing to leave those names behind? You’re willing to abandon your beloved God for this?”_

_“I’m willing to do anything to save my home.”_

_“Then I shall be your new God, and I shall baptise you in blood. Welcome to your new home, Sanguini.”_

The name burns like a joke on his tongue, the taste of the syllables bittersweet. It’s like a brand upon his skin, marking him as one whose identity is built around a need for blood. With time he has learnt to make jokes about his creator, but they are mere empty words that fill up his lungs with water until he feels like he’s drowning. Life is a mere lie, an illusion that he cannot abandon. It would be an insult to his family to give it up now, but he’s only wounding himself by insisting on continuing the lie.

What is life for the lifeless? What is life for one who feed on the life-force of mortals? It’s nothing. It’s the last slice of bread that no one wants, it’s the weeds in the sidewalk. An unwanted purpose that only exist to complicate others’ lives.

_“Amadeo, why are you leaving?”_

_“Forgive me, mother, for I have sinned. It’s for the best that you forget me.”_

_“Amadeo!”_

“Sanguini.”

The sound of his name forces him to open his eyes and look towards the source. His sanctuary has been intruded by someone he never wished to see again. He clenches his hand, forcing the rosary beads wrapped around it into his skin. They burn, telling him that he left this behind, that he does not deserve to pray to a God that he was forced to abandon.

“Felix. You have no right to be in this room.”

“You have no right to pray to any other God but me.”

He takes a deep breath and relaxes his hand. The rosary beads slides off, slowly at first and then all at once. They hit the floor, but he does not lift them up again. Instead he gets up from his position - Felix will not get the satisfaction of seeing him on his knees.

“I abandoned you by will,” he starts as he turns to face his creator. “You forced me to abandon my God.”

“I gave you a choice,” Felix answers, in the manner one does when a conversation is repeated one time too many. “You could abandon your God and save your home, or you could die praying.”

“I’m giving you a choice now. Leave my home, or die.”

“You know that I always liked your spirit, my child.”

“I’m not your child.”

He turns back around and picks up the rosary beads in a quiet act of protest. Slowly, he puts them carefully on the altar. His sanctuary has been discomposed by the intruder far too long for comfort already, and he is unable to keep his back turned any longer. At the sound of steps coming closer, he turns his back to the altar. It feels like betrayal, like ice inside his bones and lightning striking his veins. He feels like he’s turning his back on his true God all over again.

“I created you. I moulded you into who you are today.”

“You broke me down and destroyed me! I had to build myself up from the ashes of who I once were.”

“You were nobody, just another peasant that the history books would forget about.”

“I was loved, and I was devoted!”

“You were better than that.”

“You have _no idea_ what you’re talking about, Felix. Your coven was full of brainwashed servants that you had manipulated into abandoning their lives by threatening their families and homes, simply because you envied their beauty and their life!”

“My coven is nothing but _devoted servants_ that worship me as their God, just as you should.”

“You will leave my sanctuary, and you will leave my home. I do not give out threats as jokes; if you remain, I will destroy you.”

“I always liked you the most,” Felix replies with a smile that sends unwanted chills down his spine. “I’ll be in England for another month, if you come to your senses.”

He can do nothing but watch as Felix walks out from his sanctuary and disappears down the hallway. He sinks to his knees on the floor, and turn his head heavenward in quiet prayer.

_“I want to leave.”_

_“Felix says that the world outside the coven wants to kill our kind. Stay here, where it’s safe, Sanguini.”_

_“Felix is no God, his words aren’t the only truth.”_

_“Even if you leave the coven, you’ll never be able to truly leave him. His blood is in your veins as well as in mine.”_

_“Then I’ll bleed myself dry to get rid of him.”_

The sound of the doorbell chiming disrupt the quiet. The sound echoes through the empty halls and break the peace he rightfully deserved after meeting his creator and abuser. Sanguini lets one last prayer fall from his forever bloodstained lips before he lifts himself from the floor. He’ll need to cleanse his sanctuary from Felix’ presence before future use; his prayer felt filthy on his tongue although it was purer than the rest of him.

It’s with an aura of disinterest that he walks through the empty halls, eyes purposefully avoiding the damaged wallpaper. Without the will to live, he hasn’t maintained his home as he once did, back in a time when he took the role of a pureblood wizard and dazzled mortals for his own entertainment. For him, immortality is a curse dressed as a blessing. For him, death is the only true saviour left.

With these thoughts in mind, the unexpected guest is like a slap to the face. It’s not anyone he recognises, but the black against white skin is a message clear as day. Voldemort - the self-proclaimed Dark Lord that spit on the immortality of vampires - has sent a servant to his door. Sanguini wants to laugh and cry all at once but does neither.

That’s the benefit of no longer being Amadeo; emotions can be forced inside in the face of danger. It does not make him miss being Amadeo any less.

A gloved hand is offered to him. Sanguini ignores it in favour of studying the man it belongs to; his mind gets stuck on if dandy or dainty is the most fitting word. The man hides ginger curls underneath a top hat, and has a moustache decorating his over lip in a manner befitting of Salvador Dalí. If not for the bared underarms, Sanguini would never assumed this man to be a servant of Voldemort.

“Pyrites,” the man offers his name as Sanguini would offer a glass of red wine. “It’s my pleasure.”

“Sanguini,” The name falls automatically from his lips, still feeling as much as a lie as when it was first given to him. It’s not a name meant to protect him. “It’s certainly not mine.”

“May I step inside?”

“You can’t offer me anything.” The words he doesn’t say are much heavier; _I’ve already been a slave once, why would I ever want to be one again?_ But he holds his tongue, because it’s the remains of Felix upon his skin that’s slowly unravelling his composure and he refuses to ever fall to Felix’ will again.

“What makes you so sure that I’m here to make an offer?”

“You’re displaying his mark in broad daylight, giving your name to a known vampire.”

“I’m here for no one’s sake but myself. You have no coven, no strings, what could you possibly offer my Lord?”

Sanguini says nothing, but steps aside to let Pyrites enter his home. If the conversation with Felix drained him, then this one is sustaining him. He must be more rattled by the visit than he thought, letting an Eater of Death inside.

That he worries more about word getting back to Felix than about what business Pyrites could possibly have with him says a lot that he would rather not have known about himself.

“Charming.” Pyrites comments with obvious distaste, eyes at the wallpaper that’s trying desperately to cling to the walls. Hopelessness has bled from his veins and contaminated his home.

“Can I offer you anything?” Sanguini asks, futilely trying to remember what it’s like to be a host to someone not interested in blood. His glance is as drawn to the tattoo on Pyrites’ skin and the too white gloves at the thought, and he can’t help but wonder if blood isn’t off the table after all. Not that he has any to offer up besides his own.

_“Then I’ll bleed myself dry to get rid of him.”_

It’s not an offer that he’s unwilling to make, a thought that disgusts him. His sanctuary is not the only thing in desperate need of a cleanse.

“There is one thing,” Pyrites says. “You can offer me Felix.”


	2. Chapter 2

_“You can offer me Felix.”_

_“You have no coven, no strings-” “You can offer me Felix.” “-no coven, no strings-” “You- offer- Felix.” “-nothing-” “-Felix.”_

_“You’re nothing without Felix.”_

The sudden lack of breath is a shock to his system, a weight on his shoulders forcing him to his knees. He has no need for air but his lungs are achingly empty and _he can’t breathe. He can’t breathe and he can’t think and he’s Amadeo shivering naked on a cold stone floor, bathed in blood-_

“-get it together, Sanguini!”

The harsh command filter in through the pure panic that has soaked into him like a bucket of ice-cold water over his head. Sanguini has one moment of feeling utterly helpless as he takes in the position in which he finds himself - prostrated on the floor by Pyrites’ feet - before he hurriedly stands up and dusts of his clothes. Nothing happened. He’s fine. _Nothing happened and he’s fine._

He can’t even convince himself, but he repeats the lie in his head anyway.

“What was that?” Pyrites asks, and it sounds uncaring, but Sanguini takes the bait anyway. He’s more desperate for companionship than he dares admit, and he’s more broken than should be possible.

“A memory that I’d rather not have.” The answer is honest and says nothing at all. He can see his hands out of the corner of his eyes, and they seem to be stained with blood, but when he looks his skin remains clean.

“Perhaps I should come back another time.” Pyrites suggests, as if Sanguini would let him come back at all.

“That’ll not be necessary,” he protests. “Let’s have some wine.”

Pyrites offers no protest as Sanguini leads them deeper into his home. As they get further inside the walls seem to scream for help; the air is heavy with depression. Pyrites loses his composure as he takes it all in, but when Sanguini turns to look at him, his mask is in place.

“Do you drink red or white?”

“Red is fine.”

Sanguini looks forward again, and Pyrites falter once more, much like the wallpaper clinging desperately to the walls.

Sanguini walks through the corridors unseeingly; he knows every turn and creaky floorboard by heart. His mind is occupied with thoughts he’d rather not have, memories that he has tried to repress. He’s been visited by his abuser and invited in a stranger that wishes to use him. It’s just one bad choice after the other, and he’ll bring himself to ruins unless he puts a stop to it, unless he flees.

If England isn’t safe, then what part of the world is?

_“You can’t escape me, my child.”_

_“I already have.”_

_“I’ll always find you, because I’m your God.”_

He stops suddenly, eyes glazed over with painful memories. Pyrites walks into him. Sanguini shakes his head once before he continue walking as if nothing happened.

He’s okay, he’s okay, _he’s okay-_

He’s not okay, and he needs to accept that he’s not okay, but it’s much easier to drown the feelings in wine. He should know.

By the time they finally reach his office - where wine and wine glasses are within easy reach - Sanguini has managed to convince himself to flee the country multiple times. He’s not going to do it, but he has convinced himself to anyways. Felix has taken Italy and France from him, England is - _needs to be_ \- his to keep. He has made England his home after his home were stolen from him.

His soul yearns for the familiarity of Italy and France, but he can’t as much as think of either country without remembering the traces that Felix has left behind.

“Wine?” Pyrites prompts, effectively putting him into action, Neither comments on the fact that he was standing like a lost child in the middle of the room for five long minutes before then. He serves the wine with practice, the bottle and glass both a perfect fit in his hand.

The red reminds him of blood, but it was long since the resemblance filled him with dread and regret,

“Thank you,” Pyrites breaks the quiet as he steals the glass out from Sanguini’s hand. “For the wine.”

They both know that Pyrites mean something else.

_“Thank you for being willing to hear about your abuser. Thank you for inviting me in when you know that I want to use you. Thank you for putting yourself in a situation that you have fought hard to escape from.”_

“You’re welcome.” Sanguini fills the other glass to the brim, and then down it at once. He refills it immediately. Pyrites avoids looking at him.

Silence drapes over them like silk, seductive and thin. It’s not meant to last longer than it takes them to empty their glasses, nor is it meant to suffocate. It slides off with the sound of glass being put down on the wooden desk, leaving them colder than before.

“Are you only here to ask about _him_?” He can’t bring himself to say the name, and his question comes out both harsher and quieter than intended. Sanguini almost flinches at his own voice. Amadeo would have flinched.

“That was my intention, yes.” Pyrites confirms it, much like one would confirm the weather after looking through the window. Neither expected anything else, but there was still hope until the confirmation crushed it like an ant gets crushed underneath a shoe; without mercy, but by accident nonetheless.

“He’s in England for a month. You can seek him out yourself.”

Pyrites’ eyes widen slightly at the information. Sanguini feels anger fill him; he does not want Pyrites to seek Felix out. There’s nothing to feel territorial about, he’s uninterested in Voldemort’s cause, but he doesn’t want Felix to have any reason to stay in England longer, and he does not want to send Pyrites into the arms of an abusive man.

Not that Pyrites is Felix’ type. That has never been a worry. Why is he concerned at all? Pyrites is a stranger. He couldn’t care less.

He’s also horrible at lying to himself.

“Do you know how to arrange a meeting with him?”

“No.” Yes.

“Do you have any help to offer?” Pyrites ask, in a tone that make it clear that neither of them know why Pyrites actually visited in the first place. Sanguini almost - _almost_ \- feels bad for him. Then he remembers who they’re talking about, and all feelings of pity are replaced with the anger that is always waiting, resting inside his veins.

“Don’t eat garlic beforehand.” he offers up; it’s useless advice and they both know it. Using garlic against vampires is the oldest trick in the book. It’s also an awful weakness to have; he misses the food of his homeland. Time has yet to bring with it a good replacement for the crucial ingredient.

“Anything else?”

“Don’t mention me.” He doesn’t know if it’s good advice or bad, but he refuses to give Felix any reasons to intrude in his home again. Once was too much; Sanguini is tempted to burn his home to the ground already. Fire would certainly cleanse his sanctuary. It would also leave him homeless, though he’s not sure if the term home has applied to the building in a long while.

Perhaps moving is a good idea. He just need to convince himself that it’s unrelated to Felix.

There’s so many things that he needs to convince himself. Sanguini feels tired only thinking about it, and tempted to beg Pyrites to end his life. Perhaps insulting his family by dying is the kindest thing he can do; it’s certainly kinder to him than living a lie, than living without living. Death is the greatest temptation, and he’s weak.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” No.

Before the silence can return as a heavy blanket, Sanguini reaches for the bottle of wine. It’s not a wise decision, but when has he ever been known to be wise?

“May I?” he asks, eyes on Pyrites’ empty glass. He wants to fill his own first, but he’s still forcing himself to entertain the role of a host that has forgotten how to host.

“Yes, thank you.”

Sanguini tops both of their glasses, leaving the bottle empty. He has more than enough wine, one bottle less makes no difference. He’s sustained by more wine than blood.

They drink in silence, and it feels like the beginning of something. The beginning of a companionship. It’s horrifying yet nice, awful yet pleasant. Sanguini wants it more than he dares admit; he misses company, he misses the concept of company. Being a vampire makes you no friends, not like when he could pretend to be a pureblooded wizard. Not that pretend is the right word; while Amadeo was a muggleborn wizard, Felix’ blood in his veins have reborn him as pure.

Sanguini feels sick just thinking about it.

“I should go.” Pyrites says, bringing him out from his thoughts.

“You should.” he agrees. Pyrites leaves.

**Author's Note:**

> Suggestions for tags are always welcome.
> 
> Please comment if you read; this fic is completely new territory for me.


End file.
